Page 46 of Return to Pemberley

When the inspection was complete, and the men dispersed to their various tasks, Elizabeth lingered in the orchard, the sun now warm on her shoulders and the scent of earth alive with possibility. She found a bench beneath a young pear tree and sat, allowing herself the luxury of a moment’s rest.

From this vantage, the house seemed smaller, less a monument to inheritance than a living, breathing thing, dependent on the labours of many and the hopes of a few.

She felt, for the first time, that she was not merely the mistress of Pemberley, but its advocate, its friend—a participant in its future as much as its present.

She thought of Darcy, of his unwavering pursuit of rightness in all things, and of the way he now deferred to her judgment in matters of taste and temperament.

She thought, too, of Georgiana, whose transformation from shy girl to confident young woman was, in Elizabeth’s mind, the greatest accomplishment of all.

And she thought of herself—not as an object of comparison or a subject of rumour, but as a woman who had found, in this unexpected place, the truest version of her own nature.

The bell for breakfast rang, faint but distinct, across the fields. Elizabeth stood, brushed a stray petal from her gown, and made her way back to the house, her path illumined by the morning sun and by the quiet certainty that, whatever challenges remained, she was ready to meet them.

I t was perhaps the measure of happiness, Elizabeth reflected, that it so often slipped by in increments—never the eruption of fortune or the thunderclap of certainty, but a slow, persistent accretion, like the budding of crocus through frost or the gradual untwisting of a mind once knotted by expectation.

The bell for breakfast had not yet completed its first circuit of the house, and already she found herself more at peace than in any remembered morning.

She walked with purposeful slowness along the south terrace, the warmth of the sun collecting in the hollow of her arm as she recalled the many scenes, both comic and severe, that had marked her passage from Longbourn to Pemberley.

There had been times—she could not now deny it—when her new station had threatened to subdue her altogether.

She remembered, with a wince of amusement, the awkwardness of her first weeks: the perplexity of addressing a retinue of servants without betraying either condescension or ignorance; the terror of presiding over a supper at which half the company were strangers, and the other half either rivals or historians of every misstep.

Yet there were compensations, and they multiplied with every season.

Elizabeth smiled, recalling her father's last letter —written with the conciseness he reserved for occasions when he most wished to be understood.

"You will, I suppose, remain Elizabeth, even in a palace," he had observed.

"I recommend that you never let your rooms grow so fine that your wits are compelled to stand at the door.

" The advice, whilst gently meant, had proved a useful lodestone in the sometimes treacherous waters of Derbyshire society.

For it was not only the house that needed managing, but the world around it: the parishes, the tenants, the visiting nobility with their relentless tally of distinction.

Elizabeth could not walk the main avenue without recalling the icy scrutiny of Lady Catherine, who had once described the very air at Pemberley as "too pure for the lungs of those bred to insignificance.

" The recollection no longer stung; it was, instead, a source of pride, a reminder that she had won even Lady Catherine's reluctant acknowledgement—if not as an equal, then as a worthy adversary in the gentle civil wars of rank and relation.

Perhaps her greatest challenge—and, she admitted, her greatest pleasure—had been the mediation of the Shepherd's Lot affair.

She had entered the contest expecting defeat, convinced that the county's histories would always relegate her to the footnotes, if not the punchlines, of its stories.

But it had been her own stubborn sense of right, coupled with willingness to see the world from a Blackwood's or a Harrow's perspective, that had won the day.

Even now, as she walked towards the east orchard, she caught sight of Mr. Blackwood himself, tipping his hat from a distance as he inspected the boundary stones with the new surveyor.

The gesture, which once might have been ironic or grudging, was now one of respect—acknowledgement of her part in restoring not only land, but honour, to his family.

Elizabeth turned, retracing her steps toward the house, and paused to observe shadow and light's interplay on the terrace.

The memory of her first view of Pemberley—so overpowering, so nearly unbelievable—returned to her.

Then, she had been a stranger, awed by the symmetry and vastness; now, every stone and leaf felt, in some secret way, an extension of her own spirit.

The house had changed her, but she had changed it in turn.

Where once the rooms seemed filled with echoes of other lives, they now resonated with Georgiana's laughter and her husband's gentle wit; the halls, so severe in their silence, now rang with footsteps of guests and family, and even the occasional howl of a dog who had outwitted the under-footman.

She wondered what the younger Elizabeth—impatient, clever, and a little too fond of contradiction—would make of her current self.

Would she scorn the matron's composure, or delight in evidence that it could be worn like a ribbon, or cast off when mood required?

The answer, she supposed, was both; and the thought pleased her more than it ought.

Her mood was interrupted by the sound of footsteps—measured, unhurried, and entirely familiar—approaching from the west side of the house. Elizabeth did not turn at once; she let the interval stretch, content in the certainty that the visitor would find her without need of announcement.

Darcy reached her side, not with the brisk formality of the estate's master, but with the ease of a husband who had long since abandoned any pretence of invulnerability in her company.

He stood a moment in silence, following her gaze to the distant hills, and then, without ceremony, took her hand in his.

"You are abroad early this morning," he observed, his voice carrying that particular warmth reserved for moments when they were quite alone.

"No earlier than usual," Elizabeth replied, turning to face him with eyes bright with mischief.

"Though I confess I have been conducting a most thorough inspection of our domain, and I am pleased to report that everything remains exactly where we left it yesterday.

The trees have not wandered off in the night, the river continues in its appointed course, and the servants appear to have resisted any temptation towards revolution. "

"How very reassuring. I confess I had been rather concerned about the servants' revolutionary tendencies—Mrs. Reynolds has been looking particularly seditious of late."

"Oh, exceedingly so. Just yesterday I caught her arranging flowers with what I can only describe as suspicious efficiency. I fear she may be plotting to make the house even more comfortable than it already is."

Darcy's mouth quirked upward. "A most dangerous conspiracy indeed. Should we not take steps to prevent such happiness?"

"I think it may be too late," Elizabeth said solemnly. "The plot has advanced too far, and I fear we are already quite helplessly caught up in it."

They remained thus for some minutes, neither feeling the need to fill the air with words.

There was, between them, a communion more profound than speech—the knowledge of battles fought and alliances forged, of burdens shared and joys multiplied.

Elizabeth, who had never set much store by silence's poetry, found herself unexpectedly grateful for it.

At last, Darcy spoke, his tone thoughtful. "I have been reflecting upon a letter from Bingley—he writes that Jane is in exceptional spirits, and that Longbourn prospers under your father's renewed attention to its management."

"Indeed? How gratifying to learn that my departure has proved so beneficial to the family estate," Elizabeth replied with arch amusement. "I shall take great pride in knowing that my absence has accomplished what my presence never could."

"I think you underestimate your influence, even at a distance. Your father writes with considerable wit about the improvements he has undertaken 'to prove worthy of his daughter's elevated expectations.'"

"How very like Papa to make even estate management into a species of joke. Though I suspect he has been far more conscientious than he cares to admit—if only to ensure that none can say his daughter married to escape an impoverished home."

"You did not marry to escape anything," Darcy said quietly, his hand tightening upon hers. "You married, as I recall, despite considerable inducement to do otherwise."

Elizabeth smiled, remembering. "True. I was exceedingly stubborn about it, was I not? Though I believe I have since proved that stubbornness, properly directed, can be quite a useful quality in a wife."

"Useful, certainly. Though I confess I married you not for your usefulness, but for your complete inability to be anything other than exactly yourself."

"How fortunate, then, that I have proved so remarkably consistent. Though I fear some might argue that I have grown rather too comfortable in my situation—that success has made me complacent."

"Comfortable, perhaps. Complacent, never. You have improved this place immeasurably, though I suspect you are quite unaware of the extent of your influence."

Elizabeth looked out over the grounds, considering. "Do you know what I find most remarkable? That a house which once seemed so impossibly grand now feels simply... right. As though it were always meant to contain this particular species of happiness."

"You have improved the view, Mrs. Darcy," he said, echoing his earlier, simpler sentiment.

"And you, Mr. Darcy, have improved the company immeasurably. Though I must say, I find it quite unfair that you should look so distinguished at this early hour whilst I undoubtedly resemble nothing so much as a governess who has been wandering about the grounds in search of her charges."

"You look," he said with perfect seriousness, "like the mistress of Pemberley taking the air in her own gardens. Which is, I believe, precisely what you are."

Together they walked the length of the terrace, stopping at the balustrade to look out over the morning's unfolding promise. The poppies glowed in the distance, the bluebells swayed in the wind, and the house—once so imposing—seemed, at last, to have found its proper scale.

As the sun climbed higher, Elizabeth felt old anxieties slip away, replaced by calm, implacable certainty that this was, and would always be, her home. She did not need the world's permission; she had, at last, granted it to herself.

They lingered whilst longer, hands still joined, watching as the day gathered itself into motion.

There would be meetings to attend, guests to receive, perhaps even a crisis or two to manage before sundown.

But for this moment, it was enough to stand together, masters of all they surveyed, and to know that happiness—however it might hide or hesitate—was theirs, unqualified.

Thus the morning passed at Pemberley, and with it, any remaining doubt that Elizabeth Bennet—daughter of Longbourn, mistress of herself—had found her place in the world.